Gambling's Not So Bad!
by but-the-clouds
Summary: Gambling is not so bad! Is it? Will Race finally win? If so, who's out to get him for it? What if he doesn't win? Uhoh! Originally a vocab story for my English class. Beware of big words!


1

This was a project for English! Can you believe it? My awesome teacher, Mr. E, let us write fanfiction using vocab words! YAY!

Please excuse some of my spelling/ grammar mistakes in the dialogue sequences because most are intentional (ex. Doin', Doing. I ain't, I'm not. Wanna, want to...etc.). I'm just trying to capture the speech of the uneducated, New York, city boys.

On with the story...

...IT was November of 1899. The streets of New York City were a bitter with cold, and Thanksgiving was nearing. Since the strike, everyone was in better spirits. The price of the distribution wasn't lowered, but it wasn't ever going to be raised, either. That was the good part. Their success was known throughout the state...perhaps even throughout the world, but they would never know.

The night was late, and Racetrack was coming home from Sheepshead Races. He had, once again, lost all his money. He did have a penny to spare, though. He gave this to Kloppman, who was sitting at the front desk. Kloppman winked at him, sympathetically, knowing Racetrack had, once again, lost most of his money.

"Maybe next time, Race," he said, encouragingly.

"Thanks Kloppman. Maybe," Racetrack replied as he made his way up the stairs. Most of the newsboys were sleeping, but Jack and Skittery remained awake.

"You're late tonight, Race," replied Skittery, looking up from the card game he was playing with Jack. "You should get more rest, y'know."

"Yeah, whatever. You're unusually **altruistic** today."

"Hey!" yelled Skittery, taking a pillow from the bunk next to him, and throwing it at Racetrack.

"What's all this commotion about?" asked Crutchy, groggily.

"Nothin' Crutchy. Go back to sleep," replied Jack. "New word, Race?"

"Yeah, read it in the newspaper...don't know if I used it correctly, though," explained Race. He liked to read the newspapers he was selling, and would pick up big words, and try to use them in sentences, but he would sometimes use them incorrectly. Educated adults would know this, but the other newsies usually wouldn't, so, it never really mattered.

"It don't main nothin' bad, though...right?" asked Skittery.

"Nah. From the way it was used in the sentence, it should mean somethin' like conserned with others," explained Race. The other boys nodded with interest. As soon as their interest faded, they invited Race for a game of rummy. He obliged.

"Do you know what we're doing for Thanksgiving, this year?" asked Jack. Last year, they had to fight off some gang members on that particular holiday. It was a very painful day for the three of them.

"Nah," said Race, and Skittery.

"We should do somethin'. The younger kids would like it," Skittery replied. He wasn't usually the **benefactor** of the group, but today, he was in an exceptionally good mood.

"Maybe, if we raised enough money and put it all together, Kloppman will buy us one of those gigantic turkeys,"suggested Jack. They all nodded in **assent** to this plan.

The next day, the boys were waken up by Kloppman...as usual.

"C'mon! Get up! Get up! Time to sell the papers! Sell the papers! Carry the Banner!" he yelled, tapping people's feet or shoulders as he walked down the aisle of bunks.

Racetrack woke up groggily and put on his pants and suspenders. His long johns kept him nice and warm. The young Italian searched his night stand for his morning cigar. He found it** reposing** in Snipeshooter's mouth.

"You know, you ough'ta stop doin' that," scorned Race. "Besides, you're too young. You're only twelve."

"You're not much older," Snipe yelled back.

"I'm four _years_ older, _ya bum_!" he exclaimed, grabbing the cigar from the boy's mouth. Racetrack smiled in content as he placed the cigar in his mouth.

_Hey, I'm Italian. All Italians smoke! _was Racetrack's usual excuse when a snobby rich women looked at him in disgust every time he put a cigar to his young lips. Racetrack, however, rarely got to lighting one, because _someone _(clears throat) stole his matches, and he could never bring himself to waste his hard earned money on a new batch. So, he just let his only cigar sit on his lips. He only had one cigar, anyway, and this one had lasted a month.

Many thought it was disgusting (the narrator/author of this story included), but Racetrack didn't care. He didn't have enough money to buy another good cigar like that one, and the longer it lasted till he could get his hands on a match, the better.

When Racetrack and the other boys were done getting ready, they made their way outside, some grabbing jackets if they owned them. Race owned a light jacket, which he wore with his checked vest. He grabbed his cabby hat, and followed the other boys outside. He joked with Skittery and Kid Blink along the way, and watched Jack as he tried to tackled the mean old Delancy brothers. Kid Blink was the first to the distribution stand today. Jack, who was usually first, was too busy chasing and teasing the Deleancy's. Jack was **indominable** when it came to torturing the Delancy brothers. He was truly **virulent** in both his remarks and actions toward them.

When it was Racetrack's turn to buy the papes he laid down a nickle.

"Fifty, 'Your Honor'," ordered Race. Weasel nodded and had Morris Delancy count up the papers.

"You don't want me to spot you any, today?" asked Weasel.

"Nah, I don't think I'll be betting today," replied Racetrack as he took his papers. Weasel's jaw dropped in surprise. Usually Race could con Weasel out of fifty papes, so, he could use the money to bet on a racehorse at Sheepshead. If it wasn't that, which usually was the case, it was because Race head a **dearth** supply of money.

After skimming through the headlines, and deciding which ones needed some "improving", he made his way to his selling spot, in Sheepshead Bay. Les had wanted to join him, but Race, not wanting to be bothered by a little kid, told him it was not a good place for kids to go. This was only half true. It wasn't a good place for kids to go, but it didn't mean that he couldn't, for Race had sold there since he was ten. So, he left without Les, and **embarked** on his journey to Sheepshead.

Hitching a carriage ride to his preferred location, Race mused that there was not one coach with the enough **clemency** to give him a ride _inside_ of their precious carriages. Race always had to sneak on to the back of one and hang on tightly.

Racetrack hopped off, cheerfully when they arrived at Sheepshead. He hawked the headlines loudly and with pride, faking a cough hear or their, for pity customers. Some of the headlines were bland and needed some "improving", as Jack would call it.

So, the headline that read **_"Governor's Wife's Dog Drowns in the Hudson River"_** was changed to** _"Governor's Wife Drowns in the Hudson River"._** It was a **facile** enough ability for all newsies to attain. In fact, improving a headline was a _vital_ ability.

After yelling that headline, Race ran to a different location, before the buyers realized he lied. This was repeated throughout the day, until he had sold all fifty of his papers and he had fifty cents in his pocket. Race, then, ran over to the tracks before race began. Evening was nearing, and Racetrack was planning on getting home early, that's why he didn't want to stay for the whole race, but something inside was urging him to place a bet...

...so he did.

Race looked over the horses that were listed on a program, and tried to remember the ones he had seen before. He picked one that was most physically** infallible**, and placed his bet. It was on a horse called _Boar's Head_. He thought the name was weird, and although, the horse had lost most of the races it ran, he had a good feeling about it. It was a truly **unfeigned** feeling. The horse was the deepest black anyone had ever seen, and it was perfectly formed. Race hoped that today would be his day. If it was his day, he would win ten whole dollars.

Race eased his way to his seat on the wooden bleachers and watched as the horses were aligned in their spots. Racetrack kept his eye on Boar's Head, crossing his fingers so tight, he felt a dull pain running through them. Racetrack jumped when the gunshot roared. The horses were off at top speed, with Boar's head in last place. Racetrack kicked himself in the butt. It was so early in the game and it was already losing. Snowball was in first, with Midnight half an inch behind. They were neck and neck...but then...

Then Boar's Head was catching up. He ran right past Snowball and Midnight to the finish line, but by the time it got to the finish line, all he had to do was **plod** his way through, since the other horses were lagging behind. The whistle blew as Boar's Head stepped across the finish line. Race's eyes were wide.

He just won!

Ten whole dollars! Now he didn't have to worry about his remiss in playing the weekly poker game. He didn't have to worry about the **temerity** of his decision to bet on this race. Winning ten whole dollars wouldn't be considered temerity, would it?

Now he had enough money to buy that turkey, and then some! This would be the best thanksgiving ever! Wait 'till he told the guys.

Race collected his money, all smiles, and turned to leave. Suddenly, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a rival enemy and fellow newsies. It was one of Spot's boys. Spot was his friend, but some of his newsies were a bit rough around the edges and hard to get along with. Race could run from this boy, but he was no **diffident** character, and would not shy away from a good fight. He wasn't about to let this guy con him or beat him out of his winnings.

"So, you finally won, Higgins," the tall boy managed to say out of those small, thin lips.

"Guess, I did. You wanna make somethin' of it, Sheen?" said Racetrack, trying to sound as **truculent** as he wanted to feel.

"Maybe. If you don't hand that money over, we'll make somethin' of it," retorted Sheen, rolling up his sleeves.

"Maybe I don't need to answer to an oaf like you!" yelled Racetrack, earning him a punch square in the jaw. After the shock blew over, Racetrack returned the punch right in Sheen's gut. This didn't faze Sheen much, being an exceptionally large boy.

"You think you can fight me, kid? You got some nerve! Why don't you relieve yourself and hand over the money?"

"If you can give me a better reason, maybe I will!" yelled Race, dodging another punch. Racetrack delivered a swing right to the big ape's cheek, and kneed him where he knew it would hurt the most. After Sheen doubled in pain, Race kneed him again, right in the chin. Sheen's face was forced upward, where it was met with another punch. Then, Sheen drove his body into Race's, forcing him against a brick wall. Race realized, then, that they had somehow made their way into an alley. All they air was forced out of his lungs, but even through pain and gasping for air, he realized that it was either escape now, or get pummeled by an over grown rat. Race chose the less honorable of the two, and took his chance to run. It was hard for him to breath, still trying to catch his breath, but he kept on running. Sheen was at his heal, following close behind. There was a **pungent** sensation every time he attempted to suck in much needed oxygen. He believed he must have broken a rib or two.

"Sheen! Watcha doin'!" called a voice.

"Uh, sorry...I...um..."Sheen stammered.

"Hey, kid! Come over here!" shouted Spot. Race turned around to face him. Spot's eyes widened.

"Race?" uttered in disbelief. Then, he turned to Sheen, "What did you do to him?"

"He wanted to take my money," said Race. He had almost said winnings, but he knew if he told Spot that, he would have tried to con him out of it. Spot, no matter how good a friend he was to you, could always con you out of anything.

"That's low, Sheen," he admonished. "You disgust me! Get out of here!"

Sheen nodded and walked away. It was amazing how much power Spot held for one so small in stature. Race was only an inch shorter than Spot, himself. Spot was the most feared and chivalrous newsie of all of Brooklyn, and Race thought this was hilarious. He never told Spot that, though. He knew if he did, he would be waiting a months worth of pain for it in the long run.

"Thanks, Spot," Race said. Spot nodded, knowingly. If it hadn't been Sheen it would have been someone else...even if Race hadn't one. It was hard for a young boy to hold his own during this time. Race, at this age, was considered a young man already, and he knew it. Everyday, people like him went through something similar. Fighting his way through life, just because of their poverty.

So this Thanksgiving was well worth the fight. He would keep that money to pay for firewood, turkey, turnips, and save the rest for Christmas gifts and other things he might need. Maybe he could save enough one day to get out of this dirty city, and go out west with Jack.

Race bowed his head, and put his cap on low, so Kloppman wouldn't see the bruise forming under his lip. He held his sides tightly, as he walked up the stairs. He grimaced with each step.

"Race!" called Kloppman.

"Yeah," Race said, stopping in mid-step but not turning around.

"Penny. You need to earn your keep like the rest of the boys. No special treatment."

Race nodded and headed down the stairs, bowing his head as low as he could. A cough of pain escaped his lips, much to his dismay. He placed the penny on the counter of the desk, but before he was able to escape, Kloppman turned his chin up toward the light and took off his hat.

"Oh, Racetrack," Kloppman sighed. "Another fight?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine," Race said, eager to make his way into bed. Kloppman walked up from behind the counter and checked for broken ribs. When he found a few, he told Racetrack to sit down.

"I'm going to send for the doctor," he explained.

"No, Klopp—"

"Race, don't argue! Jack!"

Jack came down the stairs, eyes still twinkling from laughter of a joke someone must have told upstairs. The twinkle disappeared at the sight of Race.

"Who was it this time?" asked Jack.

"Sheen," Race answered.

"Why?"asked Kloppman.

"Money," Race answered, simply. Then, he smiled, "I won."

Kloppman and Jack smiled, too. Their friend got into lots of trouble, but their was room and everyone's hearts for him. Today his heart was in the cards. He won.

Race was ordered a few days of bed rest. Kloppman payed a weeks-worth of money to the doctor. Race ordered Kid Blink to buy some turnips from the woman who sold them on the corner of Broadway. He asked Skittery and Jack to buy the turkey.

"A large one,"Race had said.

After two boring days in bed, it was finally Thanksgiving. The boys cleaned out the front room area, and set up a nice long table in the center of the room. Kloppman invited two nuns over, to bake and cook. Everyone sat around the table, except for Kloppman and the nuns, who sat around his desk. The turkey was placed in the middle of the table, and the turnips off to one side, and the cranberry sauce off to the other. The nuns had taken the liberty of making cranberry sauce and gravy. Everyone bowed their head for grace and, then, dove in. The meal was delicious and everyone agreed that the turkey was the best they ever tasted. For once, Race's "bad habit" paid off for the better. Everyone was happy and FULL! To be full was something the newsies rarely experienced.

Everyone thanked Racetrack for generously donating his money to the Thankgiving meal.

"Yeah, Race, that was truly _altruistic_ of you," said Skittery, using the word that Racetrack had taught him only days before. Racetrack laughed, and slapped his friend on the back.

"Anyone up for a game of poker?"

"_Racetrack!_" everyone yelled.


End file.
